From the Hand to the Mind.

 

Dalla mano alla mente…(From the hand to the mind).

The trade-guild artists.

Manifesto..

Having come to the conclusion that middle-class politics cannot, through it’s servile impotency in honouring capital gain over social necessity, or will not, through its abandoment of the poor, the vulnerable and the under-educated in first preference for its own priorities, improve the ambitions of many people seeking a fairer and more equal distribution of social equality and comforts of mind in our nation…I have decided to try to use my interest in artistic expression to bring social change so desperately needed to the people and the streets of our nation..I am going to inaugurate a collective of retired tradespeople who have in their retirement applied themselves to interpret their physical working lives with their artistic endeavours…I call this collective : “The Trade-Guild Artists”…its motto (in Italian…[I am Italian]): “Dalla mano alla mente”.

Our direction is one from lived experience in working in our respective trade professions for a living and from such a background moving to interpret those lived moments when more than a simple shout or expletive could explain our frustrations or bewieldment of a given incident or drama..We, of the trades, have been on the “front-line” of construction, caring, delivery of services and needs for millenia. Time we take our rightful place to give better interpretation of those seen things that need a skilled hand to deliver to a keen mind the intricacies of movement and colour of life to a blank page or canvas.

Having myself been a long-time admirer of the “social realism” style of painted/sculptured/written art, in a Diego Rivera or Albert Camus style..and others, I envisage a movement intent on delivering strong, determined and resolute impressions and characters to the eyes, ears and minds of those absorbing our intentions..whether those characters be imperfect of body, impure of thought or unchaste of character, they will be honest of attitude and intention…there will be little mistake in that.

 

Dare one speak words of Anguish,

Under such a tempered sky,

Rather heed to those that break,

Tho’ speak not…but sigh.

 

A Work of Art…or…The Art of work?

The motivation for this piece came from four flat-box displays of ladies embroided cotton / lace handkerchiefs. I had purchased them some years before at a garage sale for the pitiful sum of fifty cents each box…..one from Nth. Ireland, two from Switzerland and the other from China. Looking at them in their tissued, flat boxes, with the delicate lace-edges folded into diamonds or squares, the brilliant white contrasted with the small embraided flowers and sundry delicate patterns, I thought them too, too beautiful to be used other than as a display…So I made four frames and placed those “works of art” behind glass to be admired rather than soiled. I could imagine the girls or women hard-at-work, worrying over those pieces of cloth…..Pieces of work became pieces of art…hence the title of this article!

I am an artisan(tradesman)…my father was an artisan (stone-mason)..the people who made those hankies were artisans, a multitude of people producing, constructing, moulding, knitting and on and on are artisans…coming from the French ; “without art”.

Getting back to my father ; the stone-mason…in his employment around Adelaide he built many stone walls and such. He built that curving weather wall along the Glenelg foreshore..by the sideshows..(it is gone now ). He told me years later that if I was to go to one particular place along that wall, I could see, shaped within the stone work, a map of Italy, with all the provinces in varying shades of stone, built cunningly into the wall!….indeed ; a cunning stunt!…Artisan becomes artist!

So perhaps it could be proposed : Who stationed “artists” and “artisans” in their prospective environs? What are the boundaries of these environs..i.e.. when does artisan become artist and vice-versa? Can art be interpreted as the “one-off” piece of deliberate intent? If an artisan uses his craft skills to produce a “one-off” article for decoration or beauty, does that one piece become a work of art? Likewise, if the artist takes a “one-off” work and by reproductive prints, mass-produces many images, does that work then become craft?

Are there then ANY boundaries to “art”?…does art exist in itself? Or is it an adjunct to physical existence…and not a separate construction of the imagination?…..and if it was, then surely every wicked creation, every insidious act could also be construed as a “work of art” alongside sublime desire!..for wasn’t it Alexander the Great who volunteered that “war, is the greatest art”?

Perhaps the boundry between Art and the Artisan can be judged as ; Artisan being a measure of one’s craft skills, whereas art ; the measured, skillfull baring of one’s soul!…..while there is chance of ridicule in the former, there is every chance of absolute condemnation in the latter….How deeply we choose to express one or the other is perhaps a judgement on one’s personal strength of character.

Can everybody be an artist..or is there art for everybody?….I’m certain the answer is ; yes, to both…although there may not be a market for everybodys “art”! There is a risk of mockery in too much display and, I’m sure many of us are aware that the road between flattery and mockery is VERY short and VERY straight!  But here again, the depth of soul-baring would, I’m sure , lift that sublime piece towering above the dross, such is the power of sincerity and in the end, there being so many avenues of material, visual or musical expression these days, the Andy Warhol claim of 15 minutes of fame may just be around the corner for all of us……The big question is  : Would you want it ?

 

The Story of Hannibal / Hannibal’s Tale.

This children’s story has it’s origin in two events. The first was in my wanderings as a much younger man trying my hand at opal mining…not so much mining, really as ; scratching around. In amongst those months of loneliness up in the desert, I had as a “pet” companion, a mouse that I caught one day eating at a packet of biscuits…I named him “Hannibal” and I kept him/ her in my top pocket fed on bits and pieces of crumbs .

The other part is filled by an old miner who lived in a “dugout” hole in the side of a hill a couple of miles away, like the pic below.

He was quite old then and his “dugout” in the hill contained only a big iron-frame bed and one small picture hanging precariously on the cave wall..It was a painting of a sailing clipper-ship that he assured me was the very ship he sailed in to Australia so many years ago. The “dugout” he lived in had a big hole in the roof that with the bright moonlight shining in, would give the super-white alunite walls a kind of blueish-phosphorous glow…quite a sight with he there on the edge of the bed talking of ships and seas while we were both in the middle of a vast desert!

Spinifex hopping mouse.

Rodent.

The spinifex hopping mouse, also known as the tarkawara or tarrkawarra, occurs throughout the central and western Australian arid zones, occupying both spinifex-covered sand flats and stabilised sand dunes, and loamy mulga and melaleuca flats.

Scientific name: Notomys alexis

The Story of Hannibal / Hannibal’s Tale.

When old Charlie took me in as a live-in companion, I was living out in the sticks…most of my life had been a close encounter with the seedy side of life..a pretty hairy existence. So I was quite happy to be nothing more than a “conversation piece” to a lonely old man while I got my room and board , along with regular meals free of charge.

It took me a little while to get used to his house and habits…some of those older folk have habits of doing things that have taken them dozens of years to perfect. But I didn’t mind, he was always quiet in the mornings as he come to the breakfast table…just saying ;“ Hello Hannibal”..that’s the nickname he gave me..He reckoned that anyone as tough and resilient as myself deserved a heroic name! He didn’t really expect too much conversation, and sometimes he would even ask me something and then answer for me as well.

Sometimes he’d take a piece of rock out of his pocket and ask;

“What do you think of that colour, Hannibal?” and he’d answer himself before I even had time to think..” ..well I think it’s nice…a bit on the pale side, but it will scrub up well”.

I think it was just the fact of having some company there that cheered him up, and sometimes we would do things together ..”I want you to stick close to me today , Hannibal..I want you as close as my shirt pocket.”

On some days, he’d take me with him to work..

“Today, Hannibal, we are going to drive a little way along the east ridge..I think we might find some colour there”…and if it wasn’t too much of a tight squeeze on the drive, he’d take me with him for a bit of company, keeping up a running commentary of what he was thinking while he worked. It was often quite entertaining and I didn’t have to contribute to the work or the conversation at all as he told story after story…he didn’t even expect me to laugh..  though they could be sort of funny at times, I think he would have been shocked if I did laugh!

At night, he would cook up a nice little dinner and I would get my meal from the best bits…with all the trimmings of a yeast bun dessert, or a biscuit .

At bed-time he would see me to my room with his “Tilley lantern” , and make sure I was safe and comfortable for the night before going to his own bedroom…all in all, it was a very nice billet for the several months I was with him.

Eventually though, he had to let me go..I am afraid some of my nocturnal adventures had got the better of me and I came home with my three tiny babies…and he had to rename me ; “Hannibelle”. Old Charlie said he was too old now for the pitter-patter of little feet, and I had to find a place of my own.

He read out a letter his sister wrote to him to say she too had; “… found another nice “home” that HE could go into when he was ready..after all, he wasn’t getting any younger..” and he sighed and shook his head .

“Hannibelle” he said ; ” I’d rather live in a hole of my own choosing..if they don’t mind “.

Old Charlie has since left the district to go to another mining town , because that was his life ; he was an opal miner you see?..and he had to let me go my own way..after all, he couldn’t be expected to take a Spinifex hopping mouse and all her offspring with him in the inside pocket of his old jacket, could he?

 

 

The Agony & The Ecstasy.

A couplet of poems.

Part two : The Ecstasy.

A new love.

Faith!…hold true, sweet Aphrodite,

For what you have brought to me.

The raptured joy of new love,

A celebration of joined ecstasy.

But this woman is so precious,

With eyes deep, dark, mysterious,

As black, black pearls from the depths,

Of the deepest of the Euxine Sea!

Her lips a red voluptuousness,

Would kiss the life from me!

Reborn me then with her body lush.

In a rush of pure, heightened ecstasy.

The erotic..Eros..has taken me,

To a place of concealed beauty,

That place where unfeigned lovers go,

Each other to other embracing,

Without shame, without fear, all aglow.

Her long hair falling just right,

Covering those curves of pure delight,

Impertinent in desire to see thee

Naked in sensual erotica, forgive me,

A man who has bask’d his eyes,

Upon vision splendid and desires more,

More of thou decorated bodily delights,

To drink thirstily your well of sweet water,

To banquet gluttonously of thou’s womanly body.

To see such peachy cheeks shining into my eyes,

 A full moon in clear skies..took my breath away,

I kiss it..I kiss it!….fair maid I swoon I must say.

I am but a man who hungers the absolution,

Of thy woman’s erotic, sexual blessings.

 

The Agony & The Ecstacy.

A couplet of poems.

Part one ; The Agony.

Jealous lover.

Jealousy.

‘Tis jealousy’s finger, I’m certain,

Shapes my thoughts, turns my mind,

Its persuasive strokes caress a concern,

And causes me discomfort inside,

But why not?

Do we not treasure what we value,

So that it holds precious to our parts?

Should a lover not also covert,

Such protection for an aching heart?

What lie is it we tell ourselves,

That our person is without envy within,

No disquiet, no worry, neither suspicion nor sin?

But stay..stay..my jealousy is but a quiet thing,

Held privately, of a part, inside my wretched heart,

To reflect within on mine own failing,

For could I have been the better lover,

Better conversationalist, generous provider?

But no…just as faith wears thin,

From a futility of too much praying,

So too affection blanches away

From love’s prolonged overstaying,

For what possession really can be owned,

When one is but a voyeur seeing,

Those private delights a lover displays,

With some private moment’s viewing.

Then let my jealousy be a trophy,

To cupid’s arrows shafted accurately,

For I can now but turn my eyes askance,

Cold loneliness flow on from lost romance,

While witnessing her warmly embracing,

A new lover to her so delightfully entranced.

 

A Quiet Little Corner of the World.

 

A  respectable tradesman I have known for many years told me of when he was a young blade, he and some friends rented a flat above a funeral director’s office and “workshop”. If they were busy and short-handed, they would call on him for some work. He didn’t mind as it helped pay the rent. In the early days the old hands would play jokes on him, with a sort of “black humour”. But sometimes he was roped into the more mundane activities of the industry. He told me of this little “event”…of course, I have taken the usual liberties with the story-line.

It went like this:

A Quiet Little Corner of the World.

The van slowed momentarily in the driveway as Andy and Sam waited for the roller-door to open. A large sign embossed in black on the right hand side of the door said “TIMOTHY & SON Funeral Directors.” Sam pulled the van up inside the cavernous building. They had just opened the back door and were reaching in to take out the chipboard coffin when a voice called to them from the office.

“Hold it leave it in there.” Andy and Sam straightened up and turned. “Leave it there”, the man repeated, “You’re going straight out again, to the cemetery”. Lanky Sam dropped his shoulders and slouched

“O..Right, tell me now….you could’a got me on the mobile….I went right past ‘Centennial’ on the way back here!”

“He’s not going to Centennial", the man handed Sam a sheath of paperwork, threw in two thick boards and some rope then reached up to close the van door. Sam stepped to one side as he read the paper.

“Leighton Well!” he exclaimed…”That’s an hour away…out in the sticks.”

“That’s right.” the man replied.

“Yeah..well,” Sam whined limply ..”and I gotta drive the Caddie’ this arvo for Mr Bannister’s funeral”.

“Right again.” the man agreed..”So you better get a move on”..and he gently pushed a finger into Sam’s chest..”Ay?”

Sam raised his hands pleading.

“But He’s only a “lossol”..and there’s nothing but a cemetery at Leighton Well.”

” Three out of three!…so you guessed right…He’s going to be “INTERRED” at Leighton Well cemetery.”

“But they usually burn them when they got no rellies.”

“Well this one has rellies now and they want him buried A.S.A.P….so get a move on or you won’t be driving anything!  Both of you”.

Sam sighed.

“C’mon Andy, back on the road.” and he climbed in and started the engine. “Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow,John?” He called to the man.

“It could, but it won’t…The people want it done as soon as possible…the council’s tee’d up an’ I’ve got the local backhoe out there already, working on the grave… just get him in the ground so I can bill the rellies this afternoon an it’s all over and done with..alright?” and he turned away.

The shallow undulating mallee stretched away on both sides of the highway, The men spoke little, Sam, because he was piqued at the ,to him, unnecessary burden of this unscheduled trip and Andy, because he was aware of Sam’s mood and being new to the job did not want to aggravate an old hand. But he was curious.

“What’s a “lossol” and why do they usually burn them?” He inquired.

Sam turned a bored eye to Andy, sighed and spoke.

“A-Lost-Soul…lossol, get it…lost soul…a dead weight..a ward of the state…derelect, a retarded person, a nobody, no kin, no nobody…alone in the world….in this case” he jerked his head to the coffin in the back of the van ‘Downs Syndrome’.”

“And they burn them?”

“Costs less…much less…but I saw on the paper this one has a religion, or at least his kin have…don’t want a cremation? next best thing : a cheap plot. And they don’t come any cheaper than Leighton Well”. then there was silence.

“Poor bastard” Andy muttered. Sam drove on in silence for a while, then , without turning his head spoke conciliatory to Andy.
“Some people are like that, more in the past than now you know, big family, well heeled, well respected in the district then along comes a misprint, so to speak….and, well, they don’t want to know about it , eh?…like I said, not so much now, but this fellah is an old one, I saw him last week….got run over on the road…I thought he was a ward of the state…rellies musta got in touch with John….oh well.”

“But why so far out?…I mean, nobody knows what a body’s like when it’s underground, if it’s a cripple or a dwarf or, or, …or anything…. it’s just a plot of ground with a tombstone on it.”

“The people who bury it know…the plots cost nothing out here….one thing you learn in this business, an that’s the family’s private opinion of those they bury. Too much pomp and ceremony, too little, too cheap, too garish you get to know the sincere ones just by their silences, their moods…their respect.” Sam changed back a gear to overtake a truck.

“Take Mr. Bannister….big wheel in the district, big funeral, a whole heap of them coming down from town this afternoon.”

“Hey, a joke:…Bannisters coming down…banister of a stair…ha ha!..coming down ,get it…huh huh?”

Sam looked to him and winced.

” Say, what’s it like driving the Cadillac?”

Sam snorted.

“As smooth as a silk shroud slipped over polished mahogany”.

Andy pursed his lips appreciatively and turned to gaze over the sun-drenched scrub.

The settlement of Leighton Well was one of those lost towns in the mallee. As many ruins as lived in houses, a service station cum general store and that was it….no church, no hotel, nothing. A sign on the far side of town pointed to the cemetery. The van turned down this road.

A man slouched against the wheel of a backhoe waved an arm to direct the van around to the plot.’Thought you’d never get here.” the backhoe driver complained.”Got a septic tank to put in this arvo”. he unnecessarily informed them.

Sam went to the hole and gazed in. He took a tape ruler from his pocket and lowered the end to the bottom.

“To the inch….eh?” the driver smirked. Sam turned a jaundiced eye to him and said nothing. The driver smiled.

“Get the boards and rope ” he ordered Andy. Once these were in place they went for the coffin.

“Pretty plain coffin.” the backhoe driver remarked.

They placed it on the boards.Sam straightened and looked around him.

“No-one to impress out here.” he remarked.

The driver moved to the side of the hole.

“Well, let’s get it over and done with….you two take the ropes and I’ll remove the boards.” the driver remarked impatiently.

Sam and Andy straddled the hole and lowered down the coffin. Their faces showed the strain of the job as they did so. The ropes were pulled out afterwards and taken to the van. The driver of the backhoe climbed up to the cabin and started the engine…he called out….

“If you want to say any last words now’s the time!” Sam winced at him .

“C’mon Andy, let’s go”.

Andy paused, looked into the grave and then to the backhoe then to Sam…

“Hang on Sam, maybe we should say something.” he looked down to the coffin as he spoke, a sort of anxious mood about his words. Sam turned.

“Say what?”

“I don’t know, something….I’m new to this game …I don’t know..you must know some words….” he pleaded “…it, it doesn’t seem right  to just walk away….”

“There’s no words to say, is there…” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose “He was a mongoloid, a nobody…people don’t speak to mongoloids, they speak AT them…no-one loved him…he’s dead, he’s better off.”

The backhoe pushed some earth into the grave, Andy stepped back, looked to Sam in a astonished way then to the driver of the tractor.

“Hold it!” he cried….”wait…Sam….geeze, not like this…I mean well, …God loved him…perhaps?”

Sam turned and winced.

“What -are -you fuckin’ talkin’ about…? ” he approached Andy angrily ” the poor prick’s born retarded, rejected by his kinfolk, grows up in an institution, gets run over by a..a fuckin’dump-truck or somethin’ outside the sheltered workshop, is buried out in the sticks like a sick kangaroo and you tell me god loves him !…get in the van.” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder and he strode away.

Andy lowered his head to gaze at the coffin and frowned, the backhoe driver made a questioning gesture with his face. Andy straightened his shoulders and closed his eyes. Sam sounded the horn from the van. Andy looked out over the mallee, the cemetery was on a gently sloping hillside and he could see the scrub run away to the horizon.

“Take the living humans away and this would be a pretty tranquil sort of place…a quiet place…” he thought to himself.he joined his hands clumsily, he wasn’t going to let this go without a little bit of respect.

“Dear God.” he tried to conjure up a picture of God but couldn’t ..he let the God thing pass ..all he was aware of was himself, the person in the newly-dug grave and the world around him..” whoever you are..have pity…on..on this person here….and..and may he rest in peace ….in ..in his own quiet..little corner of the world…”

 

The Seven Weeping Men of Sedan.

A stinker of a day in the middle of winter…rain, rain, rain…from the moment I started out on the delivery run to Swan Reach and beyond till I came toward home. One of those steady, drenching rains that every farmer dreams about and every delivery driver hates!…Standing with the sack-truck at the door of a house that forgot or didn’t know you were coming that day..rain trickling down your collar, wet package, wet delivery docket..unsigned..and a long way home….love it…good luck to you farmers…

Coming down Sedan Hill in that foggy rain was a tricky thing, all those twists and turns, but once on the flats, it was usually plain sailing. But this day it was all squinty-eye and flapping windscreen-wipers.

I was on the straight stretch coming toward Sedan…The window had fogged up a tad and I was wiping it with my hanky…was coming near the edge of town, there by Ziedel’s bridge when I saw a woman there at the bridge..she was leaning over the rail looking into the creek-bed…

“That’s weird” I thought…out in the pouring rain…I pulled up on the road and wound the window down..

“You right?” I called out…She turned to me, and for all the world she looked far from alright..she looked terrified.

“My child!”..she called back “ I have lost my boy”…and she turned once again to lean over the rail to look into the creek-bed. I thought it somewhat strange as there was no water in the creek..it takes one hell of a storm to bring water this far from the hills in those dry-weather creeks on the flats.

“Perhaps he’s hiding under the bridge?” I thought to assist..”And he doesn’t want to be found”.

The woman..aged about in her mid-twenties, attractive, with a full head of the most flaming red hair, just turned her terrified face to me and cried again in the same plaintive voice..

“My child!…I have lost my boy”….

“Just a minute, miss…I’ll pull over off the road and come give you a hand…” I drove off the highway and parked the van…But when I got out to assist the woman, not a willing participant for someone of my portly bulk I apologise not!.. I couldn’t see her..I couldn’t see anyone in that driving rain. I looked around..I walked to the bridge…but there was no-one there…not a soul.

“Hello!” I called…”Are you there?”…no answer..I was a tad flummoxed as to what to do..How did she just walk away?…I admit it was a heavy drenching rain that made even staring wide-eyed difficult, but how could I have missed her?..What more could I do?…actually, there was nothing I could do, now soaked as I was except get back in the van and drive away.

I did my round of deliveries and by the time I drove off the Swan Reach ferry heading back home, I was really pissed off!…my shirt was still clammy on my back against the driver’s seat…my hair still waxy and lank over my forehead…I wasn’t a cheery soul and when Sedan Hotel came in sight, it was with little hesitation that I pulled in for a quick shot of a warming fluid.

“Make it a double, China” I instructed the barman “ The old furnace needs a tad firing up”. He poured me a generous double of the old, crinkly-bottle of Beenleigh Rum with a wry smile. The atmosphere in the bar was sombre and dark…the day outside let little light through the windows and the electric light threw a dull illumination onto the bar top.

“Been out in the weather?” he motioned to my wet clothes as he rang up the till. I put the glass on the bar-mat and gave a shiver of satisfaction.

“Been out on the road, you mean”…I replied…”this” and I plucked the damp shirt off my chest ” is the fault of one of your local ladies”…I took another slug of that hotel’s wonderful libation.

“ And what lady would that be?” the barman heaved his chest in a silent laugh.

“ Redhead…out in the rain”..I now sipped the rum..” down at the bridge there just out of town” I continued to fatten out the situation…” out in the bloody pouring rain looking for her kid”…I sneered.

There was a marked silence now in the bar, and several of the other male patrons suddenly looked to me…I felt I was being doubted..

“What?…what?…” I opened my hands at them questioningly..” How do you think I got so wet?…you think I was kicking a footy down the road for fun or something?..” I gulped  the remainder of my drink and turned to go..

“Hold on..” the barman said “ A redhead?…at Ziedels bridge?” the barman quizzed me.

“I don’t know who’s bridge it is…but yes..a redhead..just there at the bridge as you come into town from the Barossa..a redhead, in the pouring rain….” They all just stared at me..” There at the bridge, calling out that she had lost her child…no!..hang on …her son!…that’s it…her son!” …You could’a heard a pin drop.

“ .’My child…I’ve lost my boy!’ she called” I looked one to the other of the staring eyes. The barman broke the silence..

“Did she look like this woman?” and the barman placed a small, framed photograph on the bar in front of me….and there she was, sure as I saw her just a couple of hours ago…a beautiful young woman with the most wonderful locks of flaming red hair…THAT, I couldn’t miss…there was name under the portrait..I read it out quietly..

“ Cherry Holmstrom”…I read..” Cherry?…it sounds like a fruit rather than a name…but yes that’s her alright.” I tapped the photo…”why..is she related to you or something?”

The barman placed the photo back into an enclave above the counter.

“Her name really was “Cherie”…but with that red hair and her sweet looks, she got called “Cherry”..as a kind of affectionate name by the local men.” The barman finished with a sad turning of his head.

“Was? “ I asked “What do you mean; WAS?…has something happened to her since this morning?” I asked with I must admit an unbelieving chuckle on my lips…But you could have knocked me over with a feather when he answered…

“She’s been dead at least sixty years now.” And he stared dead-pan at me. “sixty years ago today as a matter of fact”.

“Riiiight” I said quietly, looking from one of those locals to another in turn..”Now it’s my turn to ask some questions..but first you better get me another of that drink I just had.” And I reached for my wallet.

The barman waved my proffered note away…

“This one’s on the house” and he placed a big, fat tumbler of ‘Crinkly ’ in front of me. He then leant toward me in a confiding manner..one arm on the bar and he spoke softly..

“Cherry was a local girl..you know..” and he gave me an exaggerated wink “ You see these other blokes here..?” I counted them out…there were six of them..an even half dozen. “ They all went out with her at one time or the other…on different days..but around the same time..and though they knew that Cherry was seeing other chaps, they didn’t let on to each other…You see, Cherry was one hell of a good looker and those sorts are a scarcity out in this part of the world…Oh there are any number of good, solid women, but Cherry…well..she was something special…”

I had been looking at those other old men there as the barman spoke, and I could see they all had eyes that looked as if they had been weeping…strange..I would have on any other day put it down to the dust in the air..except today it was this drenching rain.

“ So all these blokes here were once the boyfriend of this Cherry?”

“Yes” . the barman answered.

“And they never confronted her or each other about the situation?” I asked.

“No…because, you see..they all loved her and they didn’t want to lose her…so when one said he was going to see his girl that night, though the other knew who it was and would ask..: “and is that Cherry?” the one would answer ..: “No..It’s her sister” and the other would nod in recognition of the denial…and so they all got to continue to go out with Cherry..and she was happy to accommodate them..each in his turn…and she would arrange to meet up with them at the “seven cross roads” junction…about a mile out on the east side of town. That’s how it eventually got to be named “The Seven Sisters” junction, because they all at one time or the other admitted to going out with “the sister”….you see.”

“But tell me,” I leaned in closer “Why are their eyes all red like that?…it looks like they have been crying…?”

The barman looked to the men for what seemed a long time..then he turned to me..

“That’s probably because they have been weeping for the loss of her this last sixty years”.

I thought he was having me on..and I giggled a tad..but he looked dead-pan.

“Kevin!” the barman called to one of the men “You went ‘walking’ with Cherry, didn’t you?”

“Too right”. The man called Kevin answered “But not to the end of the road..” and his eyes looked like they watered up a little at the thought. The barman went on to me with a soft tone..

“ That’s because she chose another one of them and married him…she then became pregnant..like she was waiting for the right time..”

“But hang on”…I countered “ I actually SAW that woman there at the bridge this morning “I called to her and she replied that bit..about..about losing her child..her boy….I KNOW what I saw!” I insisted…then I settled..” I know what I heard!”.

“Yes…she lost her child with a miscarriage on the night of the storm.”

The barman decided he’d settle it…he called to one of the weeping men..

“Jack, mind the bar for a bit , will you?” and to me he whispered “C’mon…show me just where you saw the woman…”

I finished the drink and we went to my van…The barman introduced himself as Frank and we shook hands on it…The rain was still bucketing down like it was never going to ease up..

On the way to the bridge, Frank told me of that night’s events sixty years ago..

“ A wild, wild night with one of the worse storms in the district…much like this one..the rains in the hills being much heavier, sent a wall of storm water down the usually dry creek beds and Ziedel’s Bridge was washed away…the blokes from the town..those fellows you saw back there in the bar were all there at the bridge getting ready to set up road blocks against any traffic..But then they looked into the driving rain up the road..They could see a motorcycle’s light coming from the opposite side of the bridge down the road out of the driving rain..

“Who’s the fool riding out in this rain?” Clarrie yelled..and then they realised when they heard the familiar note of the exhaust of Cherry’s “BSA Bantam” motorcycle..

“It’s Cherry!” one of the men cried “for God’s sake warn her about the bridge!” and they all ran toward her down the road, waving their arms..but whether it was the driving rain or the whipped up sleet, she didn’t see their warning and they watched helpless as she plunged onto the washed out bridge and into the raging torrent. All the men rushed to the bridge to rescue her..

They did eventually get her out, but she was pinned under her motorbike and the washed down debris for quite some time, so that she almost drowned. And when they finally got her onto the road, there was blood everywhere running from her lower body..They thought at first that she was injured from the accident, but it was a miscarriage she was having..she was losing her baby..for she was heavily pregnant at the time.

Cherie looked down at the blood in horror, for she immediately knew what was happening..

“My child!…I’ve lost my boy!” she cried…and she kept crying over and over that she had lost her boy..

The men tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t be and she tore from their arms and with a mighty effort, ran toward the bridge calling out ..:’I’ve lost my boy!…I’ve lost my child in the waters!” and she flung herself into the muddy, murky torrent…and this time the men couldn’t find her…and she drowned there along with her lost child… though in reality, she couldn’t have known then that it was a boy..though it did turn out to be that when they retrieved the body later…”

We had arrived at the bridge and I stopped the van and pulled on the handbrake..

“Well, she must have been one hell of a woman to keep six blokes on the hop at the one time”…I snorted…”Here, Frank..put this cap on..it’s pissing down and you might as well keep that head dry.” And I handed Frank a cap..” I got this hoodie” I said.

Frank was about to step out of the cabin ..he paused and then said..:

“Seven…there were seven men..There was the one she married and whose child died along with her that night.”

I was a little taken aback by his words..

“So who was the seventh?” I asked…Frank was already out of the van and he answered just before he closed the door..
“He was the biggest fool of them all, for it was he sent her out in that storm to go to the hotel to get him a flagon of wine…It was ME!…Me, the biggest fool of them all”. And Frank looked to me and he was weeping even more that those other six men back at the hotel..he then slammed the door shut.

I jumped out of the van, paused and did my hoodie jacket up and went to meet Frank at the back of the van..And I tell you as true as I stand here before you..he was gone!..There was no-one there, and what was just a few hours ago a dry creek-bed was now a raging torrent..and the rain..the rain..

“Frank!….Frank!” I called..but there was no answer…then I saw that cap I had given him swirling in an eddy near the edge of the bridge…I sincerely believed he had lost his mind and jumped into the wild waters…

I panicked..I looked about wildly for a quick time then I remembered the others there at the hotel and I jumped back into the van and spun those wheels in my rush to get back to the pub to get help..I parked the van in the street, not even worrying about it. I rushed through the door into that bar expecting to see those half dozen dour fellows quietly sitting there…instead, I saw colour, light and a mixture of men and women laughing and drinking.. a juke-box in the corner was playing a loud song…

I must have looked a sight standing there soaking wet, wild-eyed and in a state of shock, for the barmaid and several patrons looked at me with raised eyebrows..

“Hell man! ..” the barmaid exclaimed “have YOU been sweatin’!” and they all laughed and laughed…and indeed, they had every right to, for when I looked to the windows, all I could see was sunshine..no rain..no wild afternoon..just laughter and sunshine…

I did a complete, slow three-sixty turn around of the room and just stared and stared while I tried to work out what I was seeing…Realising that there was something weirdly strange going on, I made some lame excuse saying I fell in the river while working my boat and quickly made my escape. I drove from that place with my mind very troubled and confused..but I drove and drove away like a man hunted…and even now, even if you doubt what I have just told you, I say it is as true as the day I was born…..

I swear it!

 

The final failure of the middle-class “Left” revolution

Bourgeois Boheme

The subsequent elections of right-wing governments in England, America and Australia after 2019, sounded the death knell of a long-running attempt at “revolution” by the centrist, soft-left-wing of the middle-class. In Australia, it started with the Whitlam Govt’ that was overthrown by Right-wing conspiracy and treason aligned with the last fading light of a far away regency and those of the high-ranking echelons of colonialism firmly adhered to the royal arse.

On that fateful day upon the steps of Parliament House, where on 11 November 1975, David Smith, Official Secretary to the Governor General, Sir John Kerr, read out the proclamation of the dissolution of parliament on the steps of Parliament. This proclamation was as we are all now aware, signed by the Governor General Sir John Kerr. He been advised by the high court judge Garfield Barwick On November 10, Barwick, a former Liberal Party minister under Menzies, tendered this advice to Kerr about his constitutional powers. Supported, we are now aware by another judge ; Anthony Mason .The entire theatre of farce and treason having it’s court jester Malcolm Fraser seeking office like a Fagan pickpocket stage-door Johnny waiting in the wings around the back entrance of Yarralumla.

The mistake Whitlam made that day was in not taking the advice of his more radical partner ; Margaret Whitlam and tearing that dismissal document in two.

If he had done that, it would have brought about immediately two long overdue events in Australian political and constitutional history. The first would be by destroying a direct order from the representative of the English Crown, the Australian Govt’ elected by the people, would have rejected the command of that colonial power and by ipso facto declared Australia a Republic in it’s own right by this single act of revolution.

The second thing that could be enacted by tearing up the proclamation would have allowed Whitlam to then direct the policing agents of The State to arrest those traitors responsible for an attempted coup d’état against the democratically elected government and drag them off to be put on trial.

Unfortunately, this was the moment where Whitlam’s nurtured sensibilities and subconscious loyalty to a middle-class indoctrinated obedience to a middle-class “rule of law” system cunningly framed and worded to favour that class, let the nation down..and indeed, I suspect, let himself down..Whitlam let his own vainglorious mood for the grand rhetorical gesture persuade him to rather than instigate what could have been violent revolution, declare instead the lesser protest against the personal indignity of the dismissal with those now famous words..

“Ladies and gentleman , well may we say God Save the Queen because nothing will save the Governor-General.
The proclamation which you have just heard read by the Governor-General’s official secretary was countersigned ‘Malcolm Fraser’ who will undoubtedly go down in Australian history from Remembrance Day 1975 as Kerr’s cur.”

You can see the élan in Whitlam’s face in the recorded video moment as he delivered those fateful words..and rightly so..a magnificent moment of rhetorical scorn against his peers…He was indeed a master of his elocution…But ..but how much more permanent and indelible would have been the result if he had but held that document high before rendering it to shreds and called upon the citizens of The State to witness the names on that statement of treason and to proceed with haste to drag those individuals to their judgement.

And by all counts of political inertia, barring a few nods by cringing, cowardly “progressive blogs” toward radical social policy that is where the situation remains. Any yielding of ground to satisfy the needs of the vast majority toward social equity in pay and conditions has been wound back by those inheritors of the Kerr/Fraser betrayal. Subsequent centrist-left governments of both major parties have tended to obey the dictates of economic rationalism rather than social equity, referencing repeatedly to the old replay of “the people don’t want radical politics…they’re not ready for too radical change…” so the middle-class limp of “softly-softly, catchee sweet fuck all” plays on and on and on…until truly, the “people don’t want change because they don’t even know what change will mean!”

Well I will tell you what change will mean..

First : The restriction to the political power of so many private-schooled middle-class educated people.and an opening up and encouragement of more educated worker/shop-floor based politicians.

Second : The inclusion of a truly representative parliament balanced with educated blue-collar politicians and that needed Indigenous representation as suggested with The Uluru Statement.

Third : All essential utilities like public transport, energy supply, water/engineering works, health , basic NBN communication network and a secure and apolitical bureaucracy. And all the spin offs from such ownership, be reclaimed by The State.

Fourth : All foreign corporations have to have national Australian sited registration WITH an Aust’ citizen at the head of the board of directors WHO IS responsible to answer to The State in the event of any misdemeanours or criminal activity.

Fifth : ALL TAXES DUE TO THE STATE MUST BE PAID..or a degree of forfeiture of assets to the State.

The capital-based corporations MUST yield their necks to the yoke of social responsibility. The corporations MUST answer to the demands of social necessity, for there is no need for them to exist beyond a SOCIAL need for them to exist..They have no other use..The fact that they are wealth-creators for a tiny minority of shareholders is of little merit in the greater scheme of a society.

We have to disarm and dismiss the middle-classes from any form of national management of the country. This includes those so-called “Progressives” whose lame shaking of their tiny fists and peurile insults at the Government ministers…Their limp-wristed whines and wimpering have taken us down a cul de sac of jumping through endless hoops and running around endless roundabouts.

That last “fadeout” by the high-level attourney : Julian Burnside to apologise to “those who may be offended” because of a photo-shopped picture of  a Minister in a Nazi uniform shows the degree of capitulation that a nurtured middle-class education will do..Sure, Burnside gave legitimate reason both for his apology AND his posting of the picture..good reasons that should satisfy any debating mind that likes to wrangle over the pros and cons of the where-fors and whys…when all the time there need not have been ANY apology nor explanation given…the deaths associated with the policies cruelly implemented by the Minister are reason enough for such as he to have been taken before a court in the past and charged. One has to wonder on just where the now mythological famous “cutting of the Gordian Knot” would have gone had Alexander the Great sat down with the “ wise men” to debate the twists and turns of that knotted rope that confused a generation of “talkers”..

“Fuck it!” one can hear Alexander cry as he drew his sword and cut the knot asunder “Consider it fuckin’ done!”…and so it was..One has to wonder in hindsight just what sort of employment was subsequently given to those “wise men” who for so many years stood in sage stance and feature guarding the “terrible secret” of the untying of the knot..perhaps it was the dole queue for them?

Now…again..here in the twenty-first century, we are confronted with the fraud that only those who have gained the knowledge granted by a multitude of degrees and doctorates have the deep wisdom of ruling The State..Only those with access to a chest-full of wealth and business acumen have the knowledge of economic judgement, granted to them down the corridors of a middle-class education curriculum best administered from the old Alma Mater colleges of sandstone and Latin logos.

Once again we ; the people…are like the warrior Alexander, confronted with an almighty bluff of paper and air..all sound and fury signifying nothing..paper tigers with a bark so much worse than their bite. Time to take the fight right up to their cowardly noses..

Fuck it!…we will once again cut the Gordian Knot asunder and remove the middle-class from their self-appointed positions of governance and social management. With the framing of a new social manifesto……
WE will change the conversation..
WE will change the rules..

“CONSIDER IT DONE ! ”

 

Homage.

Venus rising…Botticelli.

Homage.

Can a man be counted a fool,

Should he to beautiful women homage do?

What would you…

There she is .. even in silent, static beauty,

With her dark, disquiet eyes,

Does a woman not exude attraction?

Should a man ignore and walk past,

Then it would be crime against all nature,

For what other reason to sculpt’ perfect,

Body, hair, eyes in stature Goddess like?

So yes…I pay homage to that beauty,

Ignore it not, at my peril,

Lest some archangels be watching,

As I insultingly disdain .. walk out the door,

To then be banished from adoration,

Of that universal delight to everyman evermore…

So yes..I pay homage to her which I do adore.

 

The Insanity Syndrome.

There’s an insanity sweeping unrestrained throughout the Western World, that when held against the calm discipline of certain Asiatic nations, has all the hallmarks of a system in the last days of anarchy and chaos..the only restraining factor from a complete fall into social mayhem being the inability..possibly brought on by the chaos…for the forces of sane and disciplined governance to become organised.

The Western powers display all the arrogance of a declining tyranny…the arrogance of Rome in its last days…all glitter and bling with no substance..and there is a reason for this decline, this failure to correct the slide into an abyss of self-destructive consumption..The West has all the hallmarks of the parasite in the last epoch of feeding upon its starving host.

What is it that has brought us to this terrible place?

I know what it is and how to correct the symptoms.

I have written so many times on the sickness consuming our societies, only to be mocked and rebuffed time and again..or even worse, the use of that last “big-gun” standby of those who will not listen…I…like so many history-reading augers who have placed this information before the feet of our “learned sages” in the social media fields..we are ignored…ignored to the point of being deliberately snubbed by these fools and falsely-informed stooges of their class…but I am stubborn so I will persist yet again to say to you that it is the totally corrupted middle-classes who have brought us to the very edge of the precipice and without radical alteration, will take us over and to our certain destruction…and I say the; now..at this time in history..we are but a step away from that disaster.

Since the time of the decline and fall of the Western Aristocratic powers at the end of the First WW..the middle-classes have taken control of high governance…they already had for a long time controlled the finances of the Western World and did manipulate the banking and economic destinies of their many “holdings”…these possessions were the colonies so many European Aristocratic powers had carved out of Asia, Africa, the South Pacific, South Americas and elsewhere…IF there was anywhere else TO carve!…Once the Aristocracy had mortgaged their foreign holdings to the hilt, then their domestic estates likewise to maintain a bankrupting world of magnificent estates, fanciful luxury and indolent lifestyles, the mortgagees then foreclosed on this lifestyle, bringing to an end the Aristocratic delusion of supreme confidence of their supreme power..the fine historical dust of destiny had settled upon their marble busts and portraits and the mantle of power shifted from the Aristocratic shoulder to the hip-pocket of their bankers..likewise, did the limitless plunder from those colonial “outposts of progress” so brutally set up in far away places.

Unfortunately, these “new kids on the block” lacked the cunning savvy and experience that a thousand plus years of feudal rule had taught the Aristocrats..; that skill of how to secure the holding of a colony in “savage country”…: The paying off of one toady group from that nation to viciously suppress their own people and so absenting the need (except in the occasional unfortunate uprising by the natives) for a large stationary army at great cost..a lesson learned in their home academy’s from the study of Roman History and THEIR learned lesson on how to manage a civilian population. This sudden very fruitful windfall gave licence for the now centre of power middle-classes to take matters into their own hands and the plunder and exploitation grew to immense proportions as individual moguls bid for the franchises of raw commodities and slave labour…and leaving out the predictable lineal descriptions of “what happened next”, we come to these times of endless possession wars and skirmishes to the sad and lonely place we find ourselves in now.

So..where are we now?

We in the western sphere of capitalism are standing at a point where we either stage some sort of revolution against the middle-classes who now lack moral, ethical and capable knowledge to manage governing to step back from the fall…or we fall…there is no “third way”, for those who manage the money, now “manage” the elections. The middle-class has gorged itself for so many years on the flesh of the poor, the vulnerable and the susceptible, that it knows not how to stop..it is the addict that has passed the point of cure..the hunger for affluence reaching from the upper echelons of that class down to the lowliest citizen of the richest nations of The West so that even the most wretched of these will defend a creed that they are certain..given time..is their own tragic and pathetic vision of a life of gauche, squalid luxury on the back of borrowed capital and mortgaged youth to a old age of being literally consumed, body and soul by the last line of capitalism gone mad..; the aged-care homes of even more desperate middle-class speculators and parasites…A no more wretched picture of a society gone wrong could be drawn from the pages of a Victor Hugo novel to be placed at our feet for us to peruse at our own indolent leisure.

So, what do we do?

If we consult any number of historical tomes, from the primary sources of ancient literature, to the scholarly studies of such ancient mores and civilisations, we will read of a natural adaption of habitual behaviour that leads to the fall of such civilisations…they also have been recorded popularly as “The Seven Deadly Sins”…Greed/avarice being up there at the top…the lessons from those eras tell us that confident, central governance with a big “at arms length” bureaucracy that has firm control of both regulation of economic affairs and trade, along with solid command of the military, is the best method for strong, secure governance.

If we consult the wily Machiavelli of renaissance fame, we read his sage observations on governing a state, refer to the difficulty of restoring a republic to order and rule of law if both the ruling elite and the people become corrupt and stay so after two periods of change of leader…himself doubting if such a society COULD be brought back to good order without some degree of mayhem and bloodshed…a place we certainly do not wish to go…WE, here in Australia have had several changes of leadership under the LNP to only see the Party degenerate from silly to weak to catastrophic corruption…a slide toward that inevitable precipice…We now have a degenerate government of criminals and perverts…the women no better than the men, the poorest of them scrambling for possessions of property to equal the richest..The most intellectually inept holding centre stage with the most incompetent and all the while being stage-managed by facilitators and a media that itself is more concerned with property than propriety…with image rather than imagination…it is a catastrophic disaster that alongside the portending danger of climate change, is NOT waiting to happen, it is already upon us.

A political party that brings into its ranks more of the working trade skilled and working trade-professions who know and experience the needs and demands at the “coal-face” of our society, will be the party that can give good guidance and leadership into the future…The middle-classes must be removed from the higher positions of governance and power…the middle-class businesspeople must be held away from influencing governance and the bureaucracy  allowed to manage the strings of governance without fear of interference or favour of bribery or reward..the old civil service pride must be restored and its methodology, however stodgy and meticulous, maintained.

The problem is a Entrepreneurial / Speculative middle-class that now has control of the entire mechanism of governance..a majority of whom have been coached and indoctrinated by the corrupting influence of the private school/college system so the even without direct orders from the higher echelon of power, there is an automatic “knowledge” via the “nod & wink” consciousness of kind to do as has been designated through their coddled education.. We must be rid of these parasites.

When we look to the Chinese success story, we see a nation governed safely, securely and soundly with all the appearance of steady leadership and a solid direction of ambition and goals for the people. It has to be admitted, that of all the major players upon the world stage of economics, politics, military and domestic law and order, China leads the way and while it must be also admitted that such a system may be a tad too authoritarian for a nation of our number population to follow, given WE are only 24 millions against China’s 1400 millions…there is a lesson there of curtailing those whose hubris far exceeds decency and considerate behaviour…of those who would seek reward through betrayal of one’s nation and culture and a policing force unafraid to enforce those laws that provide the most vulnerable citizens a sense of national pride WITH safety and security.

 

Why Join China’s : One Belt – One Road?

Or : Forty Centuries of Sustainable Farming.

“We are to consider some of the practices of a virile race of some five hundred millions of people who have an unimpaired inheritance moving with the momentum acquired through four thousand years; a people morally and intellectually strong, mechanically capable, who are awakening to a utilization of all the possibilities which science and invention during recent years have brought to western nations; and a people who have long dearly loved peace but who can and will fight in self defense if compelled to do so.

We had long desired to stand face to face with Chinese and Japanese farmers; to walk through their fields and to learn by seeing some of their methods, appliances and practices which centuries of stress and experience have led these oldest farmers in the world to adopt. We desired to learn how it is possible, after twenty and perhaps thirty or even forty centuries, for their soils to be made to produce sufficiently for the maintenance of such dense populations as are living now in these three countries . . . “ ( Farmers of Forty Centuries..F.H.King .. pub’. 1911 ) 

http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5350/pg5350.html

This is not a panegyric for China…after all, I am a nobody as far as ANY social influence goes and for a person such as myself to wax flattery about a nation of around 1.5 billion people, would be presumption of the most crass and vulgar kind, they certainly can and do speak for themselves.

No…I come not to praise China, but rather to perhaps persuade others here to “listen up” to what ought to be obvious regarding the reality of this mega-populated nation to the north of us..and if we read the above portion of the preface to a book by an American, published in 1911 of the skills and traditions of agriculture of those peoples from forty centuries ago until that said date of publishing, you will appreciate a civilisation well versed in knowledge, frugality and perseverance…and other characteristics mentioned above…truly a nation of people to be, if not possibly emulated, then at the very least respected as capable and culturally cohesive.

The incessant anti-China propaganda dribbling out from ALL our media that seeks and finds every and any means to vilify and demean China via direct accusation or implied innuendo reeks of the old days of anti-Soviet “Red Menace” publications…Of course, these days the “Bolshevism schlock” is a damn sight more sophisticated, but none the less crude in its enactment by certain authorities and media outlets.

But what is the real feeling of what and where China is going with its social and economic expansion?

One Belt – One Road. …Surely a bold and courageous initiative that ought to hold the attention of the world and inspire it to examine it as more than just a “communist plot” by China to grab power..

“The stated objectives are “to construct a unified large market and make full use of both international and domestic markets, through cultural exchange and integration, to enhance mutual understanding and trust of member nations, ending up in an innovative pattern with capital inflows, talent pool, and technology database.” The Belt and Road Initiative addresses an “infrastructure gap” and thus has potential to accelerate economic growth across the Asia Pacific area, Africa and Central and Eastern Europe. A report from the World Pensions Council (WPC) estimates that Asia, excluding China, requires up to US$900 billion of infrastructure investments per year over the next decade, mostly in debt instruments, 50% above current infrastructure spending rates. The gaping need for long term capital explains why many Asian and Eastern European heads of state “gladly expressed their interest to join this new international financial institution focusing solely on ‘real assets’ and infrastructure-driven economic growth”. ( Wikipedia)

Surely this would benefit Australia and open up entirely new markets for agricultural produce and manufacturing?..What could possibly be the downside to wholeheartedly joining in such an enterprise, except that certain “players” who like to control and corner geographical areas of the world trade map may find their “private back yard” of controlled and policed countries shrinking and abandoning their “protection racket” methodologies.

We have seen just recently, many Pacific Nations being approached with investment opportunities by China that would be of more benefit to those nations than the patronising pseudo-colonising by “certain western nations” that have kept them under obligation to a cold-as-charity system of “foreign aid” and exploitation…Having their revered cultures displayed as tourist entertainment for a few shekels tossed at their feet..or worse, being used as a penal colony for payment for their debts. Who can blame them for considering a changing of the guard?

And what about us?..What have we as a nation gained from this brave new world of neo-liberal, free-market philosophy?…A gig economy of casualised, part-time work, flat-lined shit wages and conditions…shit healthcare, inequality in education and a racist attitude toward multi-culturalism…retirement to a world of poverty and lack of decent care…a coterie of gangster LNP politicians who if they cannot steal the nations treasures to add to their already bulging property portfolios, they then flog it off at fire-sale prices to their mates and have sent everything of quality off-shore including our good name and honour…and there’s no point asking that old chestnut ; “what have we got to lose”, because we have already lost it!

What would be lost for Australians to hitch their wagon to the One Belt – One Road Initiative? We see and hear the agricultural sector bitterly complaining of a lack of workers, surely if there was a wider market ready to pick up our produce, good wages and conditions could be paid to lure workers to their farms…if there was a greater population calling out for quality produce, then all the better for pricing and maintaining healthy agriculture practices?…If there was a wider market for the shipping of goods, then there would surely be space for quality manufacturing and value-adding to the products we make?

Someone tell me the downside?…and if we continue to clamour that Australia is a “market driven” economy that runs on the entrepreneurial inventiveness of its best and brightest, then surely the chance to join in one of the most imaginative enterprises of this twenty first century has to be a once in a lifetime opportunity!

I’m in!…are you?

 

Received Pronunciation – Received Propaganda.

Sir Robert Menzies..Prime Minister of Australia 1949 – 1966.

You’d be right to ask what radio broadcasters, Cambridge Analytica, Lord Haw Haw and “received pronunciation” all had in common and perhaps be not a little surprised if I tell you it was to win political approval and/or elections.

“Received Pronunciation”…now, I have been around for a good many years, but I had never heard that expression before…perhaps, although it is no secret code or anything, it is an expression more familiar within the circles of radio broadcasting and English language pronunciation..being once the “preferred accent” for radio broadcasting on both the BBC and our own ABC. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Received_Pronunciation . One such popular program presenter..: Arch McKirdy went on to become a voice trainer and mentor to many well-known presenters on the ABC..:

“ McKirdy became a voice teacher and mentor to many ABC presenters, including Norman Swan, Margaret Throsby, Geraldine Doogue and Fran Kelly, teaching them not only how to speak with the received pronunciation of standard English but how to speak naturally “in groups of words, breathing and pausing naturally” and speak to their audience as if they were talking to a personal friend.” (Wikipedia).

Which brings us to Lord Haw Haw and his Nazi propaganda broadcasts in WW2..: “ Joseph Goebbels, German propaganda minister, called the radio the “eighth great power”, noting the influence of radio in promoting the Third Reich. Goebbels approved a mandate in which millions of cheap radio sets were subsidized by the government and distributed to citizens (Oh dear!…shades of school computers? ). Germans also delivered their messages to occupied territories and enemy states. One of their main targets was the United Kingdom where William Joyce (Lord Haw-Haw) regularly broadcasted. In the United States, there were Robert Henry Best and Mildred Gillars (Axis Sally).” (Wikipedia). Of course, the tone and accent of the voice the Irishman William Joyce (aka; Lord Haw Haw) used was pure “received pronunciation… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yI3IjZ5Ut9g .

“For he (Lord Haw Haw) was something new in the history of the world. Never before had people known the voice of one they had never seen as well as if he had been a husband or brother or close friend….and there was a rasping yet rich quality about his voice which made it difficult to not go on listening, and he was nearly convincing in his assurance. . . “ (Rebecca West : “The Meaning of Treason”

For this is the “secret” of propaganda…that it is done with a tonal quality of voice so reassuringly familiar to the listener so that the natural suspicions that come with botched pronunciation that tells us the approximate birth-nation of the speaker and creates instant caution to any truth in their words…after all, haven’t we all been warned to be wary of “the stranger”?…so along with the attachment to the comforting accent of spoken word, comes the added security (at least for the broadcaster) of anonymity..for how could one be expected to have confidence in a person that was not of at least one’s own “skin”…be it colour, definition of form and /or familiar characteristic gesticulations.

Which continues our journey into the known with that nefarious group named “Cambridge Analytica” and this delving into the propaganda importance of anonymity.

In an age of social media, where one’s name and face can be projected as one desires over many platforms of social connection, so it would seem that anonymity is the last thing on most people’s mind..yet here was this group gathering personal information from people’s social media pages and anonymously collating profiles on millions to use as a propaganda disinformation tool in elections…AND itself choosing to be ABSOLUTELY anonymous in its activities. So we have to ask the question as to whom benefited from their activities?..and the names of several right-wing govt’s leap off the page.

So why all this use of such tools of propaganda by what seems exclusively – in the West – right-wing political parties?..after all, was not the original plummy accent of “received propaganda” derived from the talk of a very low percentage of English speakers of the Aristocracy…a now defunct demographic of social privilege?…and why did it make it’s way to Australia to be used as preferred-speak on our radio broadcasts and if memory serves me well, it just happens that Sir Robert Menzies used that same tonal quality, if with the homely touch of Aust’ vernacular in his radio broadcasts..: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L9NHrVlLzxE ..I suspect the use of “received pronunciation” as the base familiarity for the broadcast of false, misleading and demoralising news and information, along with the anonymity ( no facial identification alongside the voice) when broadcasting allows the use of such propaganda tools to have maximum effect when wanting to persuade or at least confuse the listeners to bring them around to one’s particular point of view without the intruding identification of facial expression, colour or any other distraction..and I would claim that broadcasters like John Laws and Alan Jones would have had  much shorter careers had they been on public television rather than behind the security of the radio microphone..after all, does not “familiarity breed contempt”?

After all, how many times have YOU been frustrated and flummoxed when trying to convince  close friend or relative of a fact in conversation and they refuse to believe you and you hear yourself shouting or at least pleading in a plaintive voice all to no avail?…something you rarely if ever hear from a trained speaker of “received pronunciation” and THOSE speakers seem all the more convincing for it!

So when we hear of such and such a politician or their party maintaining their popularity with the voting public of certain demographics, think NOT on so much as what is detrimental about their policies or person, but rather on the dulcet tones the few favourable things that they deliver to the populace is served across airwave and social media platform in the shape of that familiar voice that. . .:

“. . . Never before had people known the voice of one they had never seen as well as if he had been a husband or brother or close friend….and there was a rasping yet rich quality about his voice which made it difficult to not go on listening, and he was nearly convincing in his assurance. . . “

Or :

“. . . teaching them not only how to speak with the received pronunciation of standard English but how to speak naturally “in groups of words, breathing and pausing naturally” and speak to their audience as if they were talking to a personal friend.”

 

Down the Aisle.

Your shopping correspondent’s report..

With Ambrose Quint.

Series 4

#1

Happy specials, shoppers!

Was greeted as I came through the shopping mall doors by a shopping trolley with comparable prices sign advertising that the same trolley-full of products at THIS centre would cost the shopper approx. $40.00 less!…”Check this out shoppers!”…There was a lady at the information desk nearby where the security chain from the trolley ended and I asked if the cost difference included the shoplifting fine?….. she laughed and laughed…

But it’s true..shoplifting is a grave concern..and so many funny things get stolen, I was told..but the lady wouldn’t go into details..I remarked that I suppose the usual slithy toves and wippowills are the things most baffling..she said that she was not familiar with THOSE products..

One thing that I did discuss with the woman at the desk that was of concern to me, and OUGHT to be to the management was ..: “The Displacer”…you know..that mysterious person or persons who take..oh, say..a snack-bar from that section and will slip in with the plastic containers in another section…displacing it.

I have my suspicions about these people..and I shared them with the wide eyed information officer..woke her up to a conspiracy, I shouldn’t wonder..We can expect to hear more on this subject from the management.

What happens with these displacers, in my opinion, is that it is NOT a haphazard operation by either older forgetful shoppers or harassed parents snatching unwanted items from light-fingered kids and replacing them back on a shelf…No..this is an organised affair by a sophisticated group of people..a club..if you like.

Here’s how it works..:

A member is selected to “compete” in a weekly or monthly event, where they are judged on the number, quality and deviousness of their displacement..They wander innocently up and down the aisles while they “do their business”..an “approved” judge follows unobtrusively behind, marking points for or against the displacer according to the aforementioned criteria..for instance..10 points (the max’) could be awarded for displacing a tub of yoghurt amongst the frozen fish products..(a daring performance!) whereas only 3 points for the muesli bar being dumped among the bread-rack..(a limp-wristed attempt!)…some points, I suspect, would be deducted if a “competitor” fumbles, is noticed or drops the displacing article in the course of the action..And the person with the most points at the end of the test period gets to wear the official fluro-vest and is saluted with free libations at the clubroom happy-hour drinks night…I should imagine.

Having told this theory in great detail to the lady at the information desk, I was assured that there could soon be someone wishing to speak to me about my “interesting theories”…So I am now awaiting for a couple of tallish blokes in white coats that should be here any minute..ah! there they are..!

“Yoo hoo!..chaps over here! ..I’m the bloke you’ll be wanting to talk to…I say..this’ll be jolly!…have I got something of interest to tell you!”

So having to now go…till next time shoppers. . .

#2.

Down the Aisle..

Your shopping correspondent.

Happy specials, shoppers!

I see how they do it now..those cunning shelf planners in the supermarkets…How they do product placement in such a way, with the colour-coordination of similar shaped products with their labels all lined up at eye-level and the shiny, bright, flickering labels catching your eye like it does…combined with a cunning and devious use of the fluro lighting from above..A walk down the aisle of the supermarket can be as mesmerising as a hypnotist’s swinging fob-watch!

You become mesmerised by the shiny packaging and the glinting light of the fluros off them so that you cannot even see the product you first set out to buy even when you are standing right in front of the bloody things!!….I mean..THERE THEY ARE!..staring you in the face but you can’t see them because you have just been hypnotised by the continuing stream of another product mesmerising your mind and now instead of purchasing those cotton-wool buds you came down the chemist products aisle to get, you find you have an almost insatiable urge to buy and instantly consume two dozen economy sized boxes of “choco flavoured laxettes”!

Another trick they get you on is the smell-factor…: You’ve been at the shopping for nearly an hour now and the old tummy suddenly starts churning and pushing the “hungreeee” button, just as you reach the cheese counter then on your way past the cooked chicken display…and you can just bet they have some sort of tricky fan there stoked with an msg enhancing chicken scent wafting out over the aisle and creating a olfactory riot amongst the dieting young first-time mothers who have just had babies and are trying to get the bod’ back into shape so they can squeeze back into that size 12 swimsuit they used to fit…it’s cruel..

But if you reckon the health/medical supplies aisle is bad, you wait till you hit the lollies and chocolate dept’!…It’s no accident they have that glinty cellophane wrapper on the lollies..all tumbling out of those little “self-help” boxes like pixies and elves just wanting to frolic about on your taste-buds and help pile on those pounds! …and the chocolate blocks with that golden sheen stroking your vision like a demented Barbara Eden in “I dream of Jeannie”…and don’t tell me it’s just an electrical fault that the fluros flicker in just THAT aisle..so that the hypnotic “voices” calling you from the bars of “Old Gold”(70 % cocoa) , or the crispy wrapped “Mega Mix” of the Ferrero Rocher shelf is a relentless cooee to the ancient animal carnivore in us all crying ; “EAT THE FLESH!…EAT THE FLESH!” sending the more weak-willed chocoholics into a weeping frenzy..(I’ve see it, I tell you!!), tearing wildly at the wrapper and sinking their teeth deliciously and ravenously drooling into the “flesh” of thick hazelnut milk chocolate!!..Can we criticise them?..can we condemn them (I’m asking for a friend)…and, btw…the security personnel ought to show a degree more consideration as well and not just roughly throw them out on their ear!

Till next time…signing off…ouch! ; your shopping correspondent.

#3.

Down the Aisles.

Your shopping correspondent.

Happy specials, shoppers!

“ Work 8,  *  cast off 2 sts.,  work 8 (7) Sts.;  rep.  from * 3 times more (4 in all),  cast off 2 sts., work to end. “

Now some of you may recognise the above code, and no ; it is not derived from the German “Enigma” coding machine, but just a common knitting pattern from an old magazine..what they used to call ; “A woman’s magazine” back in the old days…There used to be similar magazines for men, I believe..but with different subject matter..but they must have also contained many tricky patterns as my big brother wouldn’t let me see his as he said I was too young to “comprehend” ..yes, that’s the word he used…I remember he stalled on that word..nodded and said ; “comprehend”… I used to see my mother index-finger under similar codes in her old “ Woman’s Day” mag’s when I was a child..and to this day I still cannot work the damn things out!

But you would see many mothers carry those decorated, hollowed tubes made of cellophane and cross-stitched wool around the top and bottom with a circular lid and they contained an endless supply of the latest knitting project that could be taken into the picture theatre or where-ever and set to work…One can remember that tense moment in “The Gunfight at the OK Corral” where Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas fight it out together…the clicking of the size 12 needles poised in mid-flight at the zenith of the action . . . then to continue in softer more emotional, gentle strokes for the love scenes with Rhonda Fleming…(here : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W5cZK_KtriM )..like the most sensitive touch of Buddy Rich caressing a kettle-drum with a “brush”.. a sort of suburban domestic accompaniment along with the highs and lows of the musical score of the film.

And it is much the same for those coded ingredients that one sees highlighted as a “SUPER ADDITIVE” on some products…like : “Now containing OMEGA 3!..FOR EXTRA VITALITY!!”…that sort of thing…and then you have something called the “Glycemic index” followed by a number that could or could not be “GREAT!!” ..and there is the ‘Glycemic Load” as well..there are others..One need not look far down the aisles to find them..secret ingredients or new “super-foods” just overflowing with coded letters and numbers that just ooze health and vitality..where once, the only coded label was the “V8 Tomato Juice” amongst the other juice bottles..The same sort of things can be found in “off-the-shelf” medicines in any chemist shop..it creates an air of cynical shopping experience I can tell you!

Talk about another sight that one is seeing much more of these days down the aisles..and that is the altering dress-code for the young, sartorial conscious men..

Have you, like myself, noticed the shocking new fashion for the post hipster era of young males in the socks department?…ghastly, multi-coloured things displayed by “flagging” trousers above the ankles!..or else those ankle-socks (I refuse to use the American spelling of : sox )that female tennis players use…or even worse…now brace yourselves fellow shoppers…: NO SOCKS!!…Can there be a more indecent sight than a male wearing patent-leather shoes and NO SOCKS ??…it grates on the psyche almost as much as the finger-nail down the blackboard!…one feels violated!

But one has to admit that the idea of one set fashion, be it cultural or couture, is not applicable these days of stretch lycra and trakky-daxs . put the two together and you got a Kardashian arse on a twiggy frame…not a pleasant sight for any male that still harbours any vestige of youthful memories of Annette Funicello or Gidget goes West!…how’s the song go?..; something about ;”. . . that which is lost upon the way…”…or something like that..and then there’s those loud, super bright glasses that hipsters and even some “just past middle-age” people like to wear..perhaps to draw attention to themselves..I know you can’t see anything else BUT those things when they are talking to you..some couples have matching pairs..sort of a “Kath and Kel” thing I suppose..is it a “metro-man” thing or just “unisex”…dunno…

Oh well..until next time, this is your shopping correspondent signing off..

(Ps; don’t forget to grab those saucepan coupons!)…

#4.

Down the Aisles

Your shopping correspondent.

Country Swap-meet special edition..

Happy specials, shoppers!

There are two noticeable things you can definitely claim about the boomer generation..They have singularly cemented the denim jean into its permanent place in history and they are positively the last generation that will, regardless of the weather, fearlessly (hu)man the stalls at these swap-meets.

The denim jean on the aged body of the ..particularly..male baby boomer serves as both a object of decorum and ridicule…decorum as it thankfully is the final, secure fragment of cloth between the public and the even more gross private and it is hoped that never the twain shall meet..at least not eye to eye..and we’ll leave it at that…ridicule , because by the time the boomer generation has reached a certain age, that slim, trim body that once could support a pair of hipsters denims with elan and style, along with the stud-belt, has lost much of its hips and the now gross distortions of a body wasted on bad diet and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, cannot support much style and those marvellous denims have slipped to a depth of depravity that exposes those more fleshy portions of the body to too much cold air..particularly at this time of the year..the hipster jeans has descended to the crackster baggies!

And the second thing is; being about the last generation that actually has the know-how to fix things, those aged mechanics and handypersons hold on their stalls all the accoutrements of DiY dreamers..spanners, screwdrivers, electrical clips and calipers…but their clientele is fading..as the older patrons drop off to aged care home or Harley-Davidson Valhalla, there is none of the next generation to replace them..relying, as the gen X and Y tend to do on an App on their mobile phone to solve any number of problems…EXCEPT…how to tune the Holly-4 bbl-carburettor or adjust the “dizzy”…let alone re- install an “Edelbrock” hi-rise manifold..so if I were you, I’d get myself down to the next swap-meet near you and have a good look around at history in the breaking, because they have to be a dying species.

It became noticeable whilst one perused the different eras of the stall offerings, that music complimentary to the goods on sale was belted out from the intestines of Nissan van or trailer..For instance, where the items on the tables were deliberately of the “sixties”, you could tap your fingers to, say, the throaty voices of Dusty Springfield or Helen Shapiro..and if from the “eighties/nineties”, some sort of wailing ‘death-metal’ guitar and incomprehensible growling voice wafted from the van..and one had to wonder on there being so many old blokes with showing scalp through long, wispy grey hair and long wispy beards to match…like a live view of the blokes in ZZ Top …and the tatts’….why does everybody think they can improve on the human body with tatts’!!??…if the bod’ is gross, no amount of “inking” to the point of a full “body suit” is going to improve it..and what’s all this Lemmy Kilmister impersonation with the bent hat, hanging fag and cadaverous hairy face?…it didn’t look good on him and I cannot see any improvement with a “tribute band” impersonation…Adonis is the male measure of handsome..NOT Lemmy!

And the stuff on the stalls!!??….I thought  – I – had a shed or two full of the most strangest, valueless odds and sods…but man!!…

The truth being, I suspect, is that many of the stall-holders, with just a scattering of things for sale, do it just to get out of the house..to get some company..to meet people..and good luck to them..it’s gotta be better than Tinder!

Until next time, this is your shopping correspondent signing off.

#5.

Down the aisle..

your shopping correspondent.

Happy specials, shoppers!

They’re taking the mickey out on us, of course..by “us”, I mean us baby-boomers.. The good lady has the March edition of a cooking magazine open to the page showing a vegan pizza!…a vegan pizza do you mind..

“Oh well,” I reflect as I stir the proffered cup of “ginger zinger” tea..(I almost added milk!) “I suppose you could use the recipe there and just throw the salami on top as well to cheer it up”..

“It says to use “cauliflower mince” as the topping..” she read out.

“Cauliflower mince!!??” I exclaim…” WTF is cauliflower mince??” But of course it is a wasted protest..you see, we are both getting to that age where the medicinal diet is an imperative if you want to make 100 years with still a bit of lead in the pencil..and now it is only in sentimental daydreams of a wasted youth in Darwin that I can “taste” that “super-size” take-away meal of “Porky’s spare ribs” with side bag of chips and sauce, washed down with many cans of that gentle beer and a television replay of the “laugh a minute” “Father Knows Best”!…Ahh!,,they knew how to make sit-coms in those days.

I remember a past marriage when we were mixed up with an “alternative education group” and my then partner adopted what could best be called “alternative protein” foods with fanatical zeal, and tofu and tabouli was a fixed item on our weekly menu..Tabouli goes well with a nice cut of lamb..a nice juicy cut of lamb..NOT tofu..tofu goes well sitting in its plastic packaged wrap in the rack of the fridge door..and staying there until it goes green and you then chuck it out!.

It got to the stage where I would cunningly seek forewarning of such meals and stop off at a known small-town bakery on my way home from a hard day’s work and fill up on their renowned protein enriched pies and perhaps a macaroon or two..they had wonderful macaroons.

Needless to say, that marriage failed on the grounds of gastronomical cruelty.

But then when I was last at the mega shopping emporium, I had to park up the trolley while the good lady perused the selections of flours..besan, lupin, f#ckin’ spelt, buckwheat…is there a hemp flour?…because there oughta be!..there’s hemp everythin else!..: Hemp seeds, hemp oil, hemp protein..and I believe you can even get..wait for it!..: hemp beer!..it’s cruel, isn’t it!?..and of course there nothing you can do with the hemp except, I’ll bet, plonk it on some vegan pizzas or something..Though you can’t tell me some wide-eyed hop-head hasn’t bought a pack of seeds and tried to grow his own, just on the off chance. . .

Ah..I’ve just about had enough of it..all this growing old and healthy is about as bad as growing old and sober..there’s little to recommend it, it’s like that episode of “The Hollow Men” where the garrulous old politician flings the capers out of his sandwich..

“Why do they want to continually try to re-invent the f#ckin’ sandwich!!?”

I’d say the same with pizza..: “If it aint broke, DON’T f#ckin’ vegan it !! “

Until next “Super Wednesday” shopping experience…this is your correspondent signing off.